Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS CINCINNATI: CURTS & JENNINGS
EATON & MAINS PRESS, 150 Fifth Avenue, New York.
Herald of the happy year, Robin redbreast, art thou here? Welcome to thy destined goal; Welcome, songster of the soul!
Age and Childhood find in thee Kindred bond of sympathy; Hope and Memory are one In thy song’s sweet unison.
Common freehold all hearts claim In thy nature’s artless aim; Best of priests and poets, thou, Singing on the leafless bough.
Mead and mountain, wood and wold, Wait the rapture manifold, Which shall prove thee saint and seer, Dearest minstrel of the year!
Every note like April rain-- Thou transmutest, in thy strain, With the season’s subtle power, Winter’s dearth to summer’s dower.
Glows the mold with vernal fire Kindled by thy love’s desire; Nature wakens, at thy call, To her Easter festival.
Mateless messenger divine! Peerless privilege is thine: Thou interpretest to Faith The deep mystery of death.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The cowslip’s cup of gold Is full of fresh and fragrant dew,-- More full than it can hold.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The blackbird’s mellow note, Like water in a little brook, Flows gurgling from his throat.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The stream that cheers the lea Will feel the willow’s tender kiss, E’en to the distant sea.
The meadow air is sweet,-- Hark! from the old elm tree-- Ah! only lovers understand The oriole’s ecstasy.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The clover, handsome--white, With dainty odors woos the bee, And fills her with delight.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The bobolink is there! When he is mute a faery flute Seems echoing in the air.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The daisy in the grass Looks up to see the clouds, and feel Their shadow as they pass.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The swallow flashes by, Too merry for a moment’s rest Between the earth and sky.
The meadow air is sweet,-- The day wanes in the west, And twilight’s soothing shadows lull The weary world to rest.
In the green silence of this sylvan shore How servile seems the city’s ceaseless roar! How vain the restless rivalry for pelf! How low the aim that centers all in self!